


Scrambled Eggs/Oh My Baby How I Love Your Legs

by anything_thats_rock_and_roll



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1965-ish, Anal Sex, Body Image, Bottom Paul, Canon Compliant But Poorly Researched, Insecurity, M/M, McLennon, Oral Sex, Smut, blowjob, reassurance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25163554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anything_thats_rock_and_roll/pseuds/anything_thats_rock_and_roll
Summary: I wanted to write something where John was insecure and Paul reassures him, and then I remembered the original draft lyrics of Yesterday. To make everything fit, I've kind of crammed some events together and changed some details, but it's roughly accurate in essence.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 7
Kudos: 44





	Scrambled Eggs/Oh My Baby How I Love Your Legs

**Author's Note:**

> This is way longer, way smuttier, and not at all what I intended to write, but sometimes that happens! It's also my first McLennon fic, so I haven't quite gotten ahold of their voices yet. If you have comments or suggestions, please send them along!

John felt the blood rush to his head as he bowed at the front of the stage. Bent over his guitar, panting for breath, his eyes flicked to the side without thinking. On the other side of George, Paul straightened up, beaming out at the crowd like a beauty pageant winner. He had always loved performing the most out of the four boys from Liverpool. They all followed him off stage, waving goodbye to the crowd that had not stopped screaming since they had appeared.

Backstage, John immediately put his guitar down and reached for a rag. The stage lights were always brutal, causing sweat to drip off his fringe into his eyes.

“Great show, lads,” Ringo crowed, twisting the top off a beer. George smiled and clapped him on the back. John opened his mouth to reply but stopped, breath caught in his throat, when he turned to see Paul stripping off most of his suit with abandon.

“Why is it always. So. Bloody. Hot,” Paul griped. He dropped his tie onto the piled up remains of his drenched shirt and jacket and reached for a drink himself.

“Charming, Paul.” The rarified voice of Brian Epstein rang out as he entered the room, followed by several other business-looking men. Paul shrugged unapologetically and slumped onto a sofa. “These men are here from Capitol Records; they’d like to discuss the packaging and distribution of your next LP.”

“It’s nice to meet you boys,” the tallest of the men started.

John didn’t hear the rest of the man’s sentence. His attention was fully occupied by the positively obscene way Paul dragged the bottle across his lips. John swallowed hard, and Paul shot him a burning look from across the room, half demure, half pure sin. His eyes slid across Paul’s bare chest, glittering with sweat, and the casual spread of his legs as he lounged on the couch, like he was daring someone to tell him to put a shirt on. John certainly wasn’t going to.

John felt a momentary pang of envy. He tried to imagine being that confident, that physically comfortable. He felt the slight stretch of fabric around his thighs, which never quite allowed his silhouette to match the rest of his long-legged bandmates.

“Wouldn’t you say, John?” one of the men was suddenly asking him. John turned quickly to face him.

“Ah well I don’t know, Georgie here tells me what I think,” he quipped. George, thankfully, caught on quickly.

“Well shucks, John, and here I was thinking you were supposed to tell me what I think!” he responded, before dissolving into laughter. Paul rolled his eyes, but John could feel the heat of Paul’s gaze tracing his body as his returned his attention to the conversation at hand.

“What we’d like to do is combine the withheld tracks from your last record with some newer material, to get something out to the public sooner.” The man’s tone didn’t suggest room for discussion, and he clearly didn’t expect any pushback from the band.

“Hang on a minute now,” Paul spoke up. “You can’t just take our songs off any old record and mash them together.”

“That’s the thing, Paul,” Brian said wearily, “Due to the nature of your agreement with Capitol, they are entitled to modify North American releases.”

And with that they were off to the races. Paul had always been the most protective of their output, of their image as a band, and hated being told what he could and could not do. He spoke animatedly, forceful but always polite, seeming to have forgotten completely his state of undress. A rush of heat shot down through John’s belly as he watched Paul, lit up with passion and fiery indignation. It was becoming rapidly clear to John that Paul’s argument hadn’t a leg to stand on, but Paul had never been one to give up on a losing battle.

John himself was no stranger to going down with the ship, and he certainly wasn’t going to leave Paul out on his own.

“I think it’s preposterous,” he interrupted. Might as well live up to his reputation as the brash Beatle.

“At the end of the day, it’s not really up to you.” The Capitol representative was losing patience.

“Then why ask us?” Ringo interjected. The situation was going south fast. As much as John loved a good fight, he hoped he might have better ways to spend the evening.

“Why don’t we record something just for your North American release?” John offered. “Maybe an American cover or two, and not muck up the new record too much?”

Paul’s mouth drew into a thin line, but he recognized the out for what it was and nodded. John shot him a wink while Brian went about smoothing ruffled feathers as he showed the Capitol men out proceeded to herd the Beatles into the waiting limo.

John jumped in his seat as deft fingers traced up his thigh and across his groin, unnoticed amid the usual commotion. Paul shot him a sly grin from the adjacent seat, clearly still fired up from the show and the quarrel. John’s pants tightened and he silently urged the car faster.

\- - - - 

By the time they finally arrived at the hotel, Paul felt like he was burning from the inside out. Leftover adrenaline had redirected itself into something more amorous, and the space between him and John felt electric. Hastily saying goodbye to George, Ringo, and Brian, he started toward their room with John in hot pursuit. As soon as they turned out of sight, John’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, drawing him up short and pulling him close.

“Eager there, are we?” he asked, but his wild eyes betrayed his own impatience. Paul huffed in place of a reply and towed John down the hall by their joined hands. The minute the door closed behind them, Paul was on him, kissing with breathless abandon.

“Been wanting to do this all night,” Paul breathed, “I thought those Capitol tossers would _never_ stop talking.” The fabric of John’s shirt slid across Paul’s still-bare chest, catching on his nipples and making him groan.

“You weren’t exactly shortening the conversation there, mate.” John fell back against the door, reaching for Paul’s hips and pulling them flush together. A feral grin stretched across Paul’s lips when he felt the bulge in John’s pants press against him.

“Glad to see I’m not the only one worked up,” he smirked.

“Are you. Bloody. Kidding me?” John panted between kisses. “With you stripping in the bleeding dressing room?”

“You’re one to talk,” Paul shot back, tugging at the buttons of John’s shirt. “Have you seen yourself onstage?”

John pretended to consider that for a moment. “Can’t say that I have. If they put up mirrors in front of the stage, it’d block the crowd’s view an’ all.”

“Let me tell you then,” Paul’s voice was low and rough. John shivered against him. “Like a wild animal, you are. The way you sweat and snarl and scratch and scream. The way you stand there, with your legs spread wide, like you’re daring the crowd to have a go at you. Like Elvis and Little Richard put together.”

Paul paused to trail messy, open mouthed kisses down John’s neck, biting at the join of his shoulder and smirking at the bright red mark he left there.

“And then there’s your suit, knowing you’d go out half disheveled with your tie all crooked if I didn’t fix it for you. The way you look at me over the mic, an inch away. Do y’know how hard it is not to just kiss you? Every girl out there is screaming for you, would sell their soul just to touch you, but I’m the one who gets to have you.” Paul pressed closer, grinding their hips together. John’s hand had traveled up to tangle in Paul’s hair, his grip tightening as he gasped.

“You get to have me, do ye?” John growled, pushing off the wall abruptly and crashing them onto the bed. “And here I was thinking it was the other way around.”

In a past time, Paul would have taken offence to such a statement, but as it was, he merely shrugged and reached for John’s belt buckle. “Semantics,” he scoffed.

“Oh!” John cried, “Blasphemy! ‘Semantics,’ says the grammar police himself!”

“Shut up and do me,” Paul muttered, hands sliding over the smooth curve of John’s ass. Lying back, he reveled in the press of John’s thighs to either side of him, the bulk of John’s frame boxing him in. John felt solid, safe, yet also thrillingly intimidating. He made Paul feel out of control in the best way.

Hurriedly shucking the rest of their clothes, John fumbled in the nightstand for the small bottle in the drawer. Paul pulled his knees up to his chest, the usual feeling of awkwardness swiftly extinguished when John slid one large finger in, pressing against his walls with smooth, sure strokes. Paul couldn’t stop the moan that fell from his mouth, eyes screwed shut against the pleasure-pain.

“Fuck,” John whispered reverently, his other hand wrapped bracingly around Paul’s bent leg. “You’re so fucking bendy, Macca. Could twist you into any shape I wanted.”

Paul nodded wordlessly, rocking back slightly against John’s hand. John added another finger, scissoring them gently as Paul slowly relaxed. John rarely displayed this much patience in any task, which made Paul cherish even more the care with which John handled him. Paul let out a needy whine as John’s fingers suddenly twisted, pressing into his prostate and turning his vision white. John laughed, with the same self-satisfied smirk he wore when teasing magic out of a guitar.

“Hmm? What is it that you want? Don’t know if you won’t tell me,” John teased.

Paul’s eyes snapped open to glare at him. “Fucking get on with it,” he growled. John needed no more encouragement. Removing his fingers, he smeared a generous amount of lube over his cock before pressing into Paul. Bottoming out, he paused to let Paul adjust.

When John finally started moving, it was with long, careful strokes that quickly gave way to a frenzy of motion. Paul wrapped his legs around John, pulling him deeper with each thrust. John’s strong hands pressed his shoulders into the mattress, which jolted rhythmically beneath them. When John tilted his hips, ramming into _that_ spot again, Paul felt his whole body clench. John hissed as Paul’s nails scratched across his back and he snapped his hips forward again.

“That’s it, John,” Paul panted. “Right there. Harder- oh!” Paul felt the imminent wave of orgasm building up, every nerve on fire as John pounded into him.

“That shut you up,” John chuckled, but he sounded just as desperate as Paul felt. He reached down to wrap his hand around Paul’s cock, pumping in time with his thrusts. Precome was beading at the tip, and John slipped his thumb up to smear it around. Paul rolled his hips, taking John even deeper, his weight bearing down on Paul as he twisted his wrist expertly and Paul came with a shout. John moaned as Paul tensed around him, giving only a few more jerky thrusts before he came as well, shaking and spilling inside Paul.

John’s arms gave out and Paul welcomed the weight as John collapsed against his pounding chest. They lay there for a moment, catching their breath before John made to roll off of him. Paul instinctively tightened his limbs, not wanting to lose the warmth of John’s body blanketed over him.

“Blimey, d’you want to sleep like this?” John asked, “You’d wake up all sticky.” Paul obliged, releasing his grip and wiping up with the wet towel John brought him, before returning to a starfish-like position.

“Trying to ward me off yer bed, Macca?” John asked, tone caught between teasing and and the slightest hint of hurt.

“As if,” Paul scoffed, motioning for John to lie back down. Clearly hesitant, John carefully arranged his body over Paul’s, muscles straining to put as little weight as possible on the younger man.

“Come off it, you berk,” Paul complained, pulling him closer. “Lay down and go the fuck to sleep.”

\- - - - 

Soft rays of light had just started to filter through the curtains when John began to wake. Rolling over confusedly, he discovered the reason for his earlier-than-usual awakening. The mattress shifted and blankets were nearly pulled off of him as Paul stretched and rolled out of bed. John blinked sleepily as he admired Paul’s lithe body, gracefully loping across the room to retrieve a guitar. Paul settled back onto the bed and glanced at John.

“I woke up with a tune in my head,” he explained. “I think I’ve copped it from somewhere, but I’ve got to work it out.”

With that, Paul turned his full attention to the guitar, humming softly and trying different chord shapes. He curled easily over the guitar, blankets abandoned at the foot of the bed. A long leg stretched out toward John, the morning light illuminating pale skin.

John’s eyes traced his silhouette, admiring the taut lines and gentle curves that made up Paul. This was Paul at his most beautiful (followed closely by sweaty, energetic on-stage Paul): intensely focused, consumed by the music, but also vulnerable, thoughtlessly open and relaxed. His perfect lips carefully formed vowel shapes as he sang nonsense, chasing the song that existed only in his head.

John’s grumbling stomach pulled his attention away from Paul, and he realized they hadn’t eaten since before last night’s show. A spike of resentment shot through him. Paul sat happily on the bed, feather-light, playing guitar, and John was hungry. He turned away from Paul and climbed out of bed, immediately reaching for the dressing gown that hung over the back of a chair. He secured it tightly before walking across the room to call room service. Placing the phone back on the hook, he turned to find Paul watching him, fingers resting silently on the guitar.

“Why d’you do that?” he asked. John stilled.

“Do what?” John’s tone was carefully neutral.

“You always put on clothes the minute you get up. You don’t change backstage with the rest of us. You think I don’t notice, but I do.” Paul’s voice was light but his eyes were serious.

“Well it’s like with birds, innit?” John forced a laugh, but it came out harsh, mangled. “There’s pretty enough to fuck and then there’s pretty enough to date.”

“You’re not a bird.” Whatever Paul planned to say next was cut short by the knock that announced the arrival of their food. John hastily opened the door, wheeled the cart in, and shut the door without bothering to tip the waiter.

Paul raised an eyebrow. “’Miserly, penny-pinching Beatles,’ now there’s a headline,” he said with a flicker of a smile.

“Worse than ‘Paul McCartney in the Nude’?” John shot back.

Paul laid the guitar down gently and rose up on his knees, reaching over to pluck a muffin off the tray. He looked back at John through his eyelashes, trying to decide what he wanted to say next.

“John. You don’t have to hide. Not from me. Not from anyone, but especially not from me.”

John stopped spooning scrambled eggs onto a plate but didn’t look up.

“Scrambled eggs…” Paul sang softly, returning to the song he’d been working on. “Oh my baby how I love your legs…”

John laughed despite himself. Paul shot him a grin.

“I think you need to work on those lyrics, mate,” John commented.

Paul kept singing. “But not as much as I love scrambled eggs…”

Now it was John’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Fine then, I’ll sod off and leave you and your scrambled eggs to it,” he said mock-irritably. At that, Paul stopped playing.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he said, getting up from the bed and stalking towards John. He stopped an inch away, so close John could see every freckle on his cheeks even without glasses, his hands on the tie of John’s dressing gown.

Leaning in to capture John’s lips in a kiss, Paul deftly unfastened the tie. His hands slipped inside the folds of the dressing gown to caress John’s sides, tracing up his chest. John groaned against his mouth as Paul tweaked a nipple, his own hands reaching up to grip Paul’s silky hair.

Paul shifted to bite at John’s jaw and trail kisses down his neck. Pausing to bite softly at his collarbone, Paul edged the robe off of John’s shoulder. He ran his nails down John’s arm, smiling at the goosebumps that raised in his wake. Pushing the robe back more, Paul returned to John’s chest, tracing the muscles and scars with light fingers, sucking a nipple into his mouth and feeling it harden beneath his tongue. He began kissing a trail down John’s chest and stomach.

The dressing gown dropped to the floor as Paul sank to his knees. His hands slid down to grip John’s hips as he stared up the length of his body.

“Beautiful,” he breathed. John squirmed as Paul’s warm breath hit his cock, which was already bobbing at his stomach, but still managed to shoot Paul a disbelieving glare.

“Save that for the birds, Paulie, and get on with it.”

Paul nuzzled his face against the dark hair that covered John’s groin, but his eyes never left John’s. “No, I mean it. You’re like … art. Art isn’t about being pretty. It’s about being powerful.” Seeming to run out of words, he busied himself instead with enveloping John’s cock in his warm, wet mouth.

John’s eyes fluttered shut, his mouth dropping open slightly. He shivered as Paul ghosted a hand over his thigh, brushing teasingly against his balls before it came up to grip his ass. Carding a hand through Paul’s hair, he tugged slightly, which made Paul moan. The vibration resonated through John’s body, pleasure washing over him in waves.

Resting his hand on Paul’s cheek, he traced the seam of Paul’s lips. They were stretched tight around John’s cock, and that combined with the messy hair falling in his eyes made Paul look thoroughly debauched. The next bob of his head brought John’s thumb inside his mouth as well, stretching his lips even more.

John fought the pressure building inside him, desperate to extend the pleasure for just a little bit longer, but it was futile. Between Paul’s hands greedily roaming every inch of skin he could reach and the reverent look in his eyes as he stared up at John, it was too much. John’s hips jerked forward involuntarily, pumping in and out of Paul’s tight mouth. Paul swallowed against him and John came, hot spurts spilling past Paul’s lips.

When John’s brain came back online, he sank down next to Paul. Pulling him into a kiss, John chased the taste of himself as he ravaged Paul’s mouth. He reached down, intending to help Paul to his own release, but pulled away when he found Paul’s cock completely soft. Self-doubt flickered in his mind (was Paul not attracted to him anymore?) before he noticed the come splattered across Paul’s thighs.

“I already…” Paul’s cheeks were pink. “That’s how bloody hot you are. I can’t help myself.”

Overwhelmed, John avoided a response by reaching for the abandoned dressing gown to wipe them clean, before grabbing a guitar of his own and returning to the bed.

“So how does this song of yours go again?”

Paul took the hint and dove back into the music, his singing shaky as he regained his breath. John diligently followed along, suggesting improvements here and there, an alternate chord voicing or phrasing, as the sun grew higher in the sky. It wasn’t until Ringo came banging on the door to remind them of some imminent press engagement that either of them bothered to get dressed.


End file.
